Breakfast
by Nell McKeon
Summary: Amnesty Days/Series Timeline. Written for the challenge prompt "breakfast." When is a "Big Man's Breakfast" more than just plates of food on the table?


**Breakfast**

"The big man's breakfast." I glance up at the motherly waitress, giving her my order by rote.

"Two eggs over easy, steak rare, home fries, biscuits and butter, short stack of pancakes, and keep the coffee coming, same as yesterday?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Same as the three days before yesterday?"

"Uhhh, yes, that's right." Jeez, in a busy place like this, how can she remember a stranger's order. Not good. If I'm still here tomorrow, sitting by myself, and I sure hope I'm not, I'll have to order the trail's end combo breakfast. He'd prefer today's selection, though."

"You ain't a big man."

"Well, not in size, Bea, but in other ways…" I give her one of my smooth charming smiles and was rewarded with a girlish giggle. See, my partner isn't the only one who can flirt. My pasted-on smile is in danger of turning into a frown as all the times I've told him to keep it to himself flashes through my mind. After all, flirting when it's not going to get you anything you need just makes the women remember you for no good reason. Not advisable for two reforming outlaws on the run."

"You gonna eat something more than a nibble at the biscuits this morning? I don't know why you order all this food when all you swallow is the coffee."

"It's mighty fine coffee." I push my empty cup closer to her, hopeful-like so she'll take the hint and fill it. She just stands there with a faint disapproving frown, holding the coffee pot hostage. I don't tell her the breakfast isn't really for me. It's for my partner. My partner, who is four and half days late.

He should be here by now. My stomach clenches a little and any hunger is over rode by worry. Not that anyone looking at me could tell. All they would see is a man nonchalantly perusing yesterday's paper, without a care in the world. I read the article one more time, slowly, as if the words would tell a different story this go 'round. Heyes and Curry were spotted and a posse was in hot pursuit of the notorious outlaws last seen heading south. The sheriff, certain that they wounded Curry as a blood trail was found, expected to capture or kill the dangerous gunman before the week was out. Heyes has vanished in thin air by using his smart and wily ways.

Wily ways, not hardly. I'm glad my reputation for intelligence and cunning is still intact but I know that this time it's more of a case of the sheriff sticking to his preconceived notions. Hannibal Heyes is the brains, Kid Curry is just the gun hand. Well, it was a gun hand that has me sitting here and not the Fastest Gun in the West's gun hand at that. I may not be the same caliber as the Kid but he's honed my skills to where I'm better than most even if he never shuts up about the so-called twist when I need to fast draw. I've always been pretty accurate when I had to time to aim and I'm better than good enough when I don't. Folks never do give me any credit for marksmanship and we've never seen the need to enlighten officers of the law. My own kind, rather the denizens outside the law, know better. You can't run a successful outlaw gang and earn the respect of your peers, no matter who they are, if you can't competently handle a gun, not in my world, at least.

I got the drop on the few posse members who lit out after me when the Kid and I split up. I'm not surprised they didn't fess up that they were outgunned by Hannibal Heyes. No, it's less a blow to their manhood if I, the genius outlaw leader, outsmarted them. But being outgunned by Kid Curry there's no shame in that. I try to shut up the annoying voice in my head that keeps going over every dire scenario my active imagination can come up with and listen - Is that the sound of familiar hoof beats in the street? I crane my neck to look over the half curtain and up and down the hard-packed dusty dirt to see … an unfamiliar bay ridden by a total stranger. The hairs of my neck rise as I sense someone standing close beside me, and I slowly turn just my head to peer up at the person.

"Another refill while you're waiting, Joshua?"

"Yes, thank you."

I don't lift my cup so she can't see my normally steady hand tremble slightly. Too much coffee, too much whiskey, too much worry, and too little sleep will do that to you. It will turn a little everyday sight, an overheard comment, or a remembrance into so much more in your mind. It's been four and half days past when we agreed to meet here and seven days since I last saw most of an over-eager bunch of blood-thirsty amateurs and glory-hound lawmen shooting at my partner. If someone's shooting at us, knowing who we are, you can be sure they're aiming at the Kid. Me, they'll give the benefit of the doubt to. Oh yeah, I've had my share of lead traveling in my direction but that's mainly due to being a convenient, visible or accessible target. It's Kid Curry squarely in their sights if the shooters have a choice. My partner, however, those who don't know better, think he's the more overtly dangerous one; the one they want to get out of the way first. They don't know him at all, just the reputation and the glory of getting the credit for killing the Fastest Gun in the West makes sane men a little rabid in their zealous pursuit of their goal. And if they capture us, Kid gets the cuffs behind his back and rough treatment more often than not while I get the ropes and my hands tied to the saddle horn.

Plunk, a huge breakfast on several plates is plopped down in front of me. It sure looks good. It looked just as good every day I ordered it. Too bad my stomach's churning, my appetite is nonexistent, and the seat across from me is still empty with no partner in sight. I can be an optimist and I do know when I'm engaging in wishful thinking but I felt sure today would be the day he'd be here. I eye the biscuits and pick one up to slap a little butter on it. When the Kid does get here, he'll pitch a fit if he thinks I didn't eat. This way I can honestly tell him I ordered the big man's breakfast in his honor and ate. He doesn't have to know what I ate, exactly. Breakfast is his favorite meal, well actually, every meal is a favorite meal but missing breakfast sure gets him proddy, not a pleasant way to start the day.

The boy who brings the morning news tosses a few onto the front counter after he pushes his way through the breakfast time hungry crowd

"Hey, kid!" My head snaps up despite knowing that it's not my Kid that's being called to. "Any word if they caught up with Curry in there?" a deep voice calls out over the constant din of the tinkling door bells with a steady stream of customers coming and going and the rise and fall of constant conversation. I inwardly cringe.

"Don't know, 'cause I don't have time to read it. I just deliver them, mister," the boy shouts back over his shoulder as he adjusts the canvas carry bag.

A few fellow diners lift their heads from their breakfasts, drop the silverware and amble up to grab a paper. Do I want to read another story about the exciting chase and possible capture or worse of the infamous gunman? No, I don't but I'm compelled to anyway. I don't know what is worse not knowing and wondering where he is and how he is or possibly reading something I'm gonna deeply regret. I grab one of the café's copies and take it back to my table. I scan the pages and a little hope rises in my chest. There's no big bold headline announcing the unthinkable. I start to seriously study each page to reassure myself that I'm not missing any bad news. In this case maybe no news is good news.

I reach for the buttered biscuit, my eyes firmly cast down at the black and white newsprint, and touch skin. Huh? My eyes shoot up faster than a slug from my partner's forty-five and who's slid into a seat so stealthily that I didn't even notice but the Kid. Not good in one way, but yeah, good in the best way possible.

He's dirty, haggard, and tired looking but there is a great big ole grin smirking at me, crumbs speckling his lips and decorating the faded blue shirt front as he stuffs the stolen biscuit into his mouth in one piece. One cheek puffs out like a chipmunk. Blood-shot blue eyes drop to the table, taking in the reading matter, and the crummy smirk fades. He knows, he's been on my side of the table at times, although, those big man breakfasts would have been wiped clean.

"I see your friend finally showed up, Joshua."

For a woman who is a large as Bea, she sure manages to appear at your elbow without you knowing how she got there. Her coffee pot hovers over the overturned coffee cup.

"Want some?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Okay, let me fill you up and then I'll come back and take your order."

The Kid turns the cup right side up in the saucer and lifts it for Bea to fill with his left hand, which is the one closest to the cup and to Bea. I notice a slight tensing in the lines of his face and the slow deliberate movement of his arm. I remember the blood trail the sheriff boasted about and slide my eyes up and down my partner, at least the parts I can see. He notices the silent examination, stands up and slowly turns around before sitting back down at the table.

He leans back in the chair as our eyes meet and hold. I don't have to spell out the worry of waiting to him. He knows. My partner and best friend leans over, his right hand lying causally along side the plate full of nice juicy steak and starts talking low but not so low that it appears unusual just low enough that what he's saying blends into the background noise of the diner.

"My upper left arm, a graze, and only a graze but it bled a lot and I couldn't take the time to bandage it for a while. I'm fine, though, just tired and a little saddle sore. I'm looking forward to a bath and a soft bed after breakfast."

"What happened after we split up?" I know I should wait until I get him back to the hotel but I gotta know at least the basics. The details I'll pull out of him later with further questions.

"Well you know, I don't think those guys were the sharpest tools in the shed. Want to hear how I had them runnin' in circles and shootin' at themselves? Not that anyone was any kind of a good shot. Mmmm, my arm must have been a lucky hit. Let me tell you…."

The Kid gave me the rough run down and by the end of the abbreviated and edited version we were both laughing. It felt good and I couldn't help but to be thankful that even though I tease him unmercifully about him not thinking, Kid Curry has a good head on his shoulders, different than mine but every bit as good. The law underestimates my marksmanship but they seriously underestimate my partner's intelligence. And once again that worked to our advantage. He really had a clever way to shake loose the posse and certainly didn't need my help as I didn't need his. This time, I amend.

It doesn't always work out so well for both of us and with a start I remind myself of the blood trail and wound he has hidden under a blue shirt sleeve. Gotta get a good look at that back at the hotel room. All in all, we make a good team both in the gun and mental skills department.

Bea arrived back at the table, her order pad and pen ready. Before the Kid can say a word, I grab hold of my plate that's he been eyeing and trying to inch over to his side of the table.

"This is my breakfast and I'm starving." To prove it I take a big forkful of egg, the yolk drips a little down my chin, and I daintily dab at it as I chew with relish. "You can have one of your own."

Bea looks through slitted eyes at me, knowing that I've ordered plenty but hardly eaten any. I wink at her and give a slight nod at the Kid.

"He'll have what I've had every morning I've been here. Bring him a big man's breakfast."

She plays along and I sigh in relief as she gives a once over at my five-foot, eleven inch, one hundred sixty-five-pound partner, according to the wanted posters. "You ain't a big man, either. You gonna eat all that?"

I can't help it but a genuine belly laugh escapes me and it feels good. "Bea, if you only knew. My friend Thaddeus, here might not look like a big man but he sure eats like one. In fact, you'd better make that a tall stack of pancakes instead of a short stack and add two more eggs."


End file.
